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Hey, you know what? I did NOT go to the polls tonight, and pull a lever for Barack Obama. No, sir.
I pressed a touch screen for him instead.
The whole voting process tonight took a grand total of one minute and nine seconds. I came in, signed a couple of perf pads and a register book, took the ticket, gave it to the smiling lady at the booth, went in, and showed the Junior Senator from Illinois a little love. I enjoy expedient things! A whole lot better than the check out line at the Walmart, where various and sundry brain-dead imbeciles can't figure out how to count out your change. Duh.
"Hey, George!"
It's Don Don. Three stools away. Apparently, humidity has made the salt in his shaker petrify, but he can't seem to glean this. He's slamming the salt shaker down on the counter, but to no avail; the salt in there's hard as frosted glass. "Hey George, why's the salt not coming out?
Duh indeed.
"Because it's hardened."
"I'm trying to break it up!" He continues to slam the shaker on the counter. Dawn comes down the way, and snatches it out of his hands. "What the hell are you doing?"
"The salt's not coming out!"
"Just ask me for another shaker, and I'll give you one!" Dawn's livid. "Jesus H. Christ, you're worse than my kids!"
Don Don pouts. "All I wanted was a little salt."
It's not too crowded tonight. It's Dawn, along with Leathea on the other end. Leathea's been working days lately. It's better with her schedule. Tonight, she's just filling in. Shy to the point of pain to begin with; she avoids Don Don like the plague. He scares her to death.
Dawn brings me my bowl of steaming oatmeal. In the side she's included a maple syrup dispenser, and some brown sugar. "I'm McCain all the way," she says. "I voted this morning."
"He was in Hamilton yesterday, but you probably wouldn't have gotten in there anyway."
"No, but my cousin did. He interned with Jim Saxton." Jim Saxton was a long, long time South Jersey GOP congressman who was a past master at bringing home the bacon. "He used the chits he built up to get in there."
"The way the cable networks are talking, it's like McCain's pulling away here."
"Good. I don't want Romney to win. We can't have someone who looks like his hair's held together by Crazy Glue."
"Yeah. Just like his platform."
"He's trying to be all things to all people, and he's winding up being nothing to nobody."
I prepare my oatmeal with the fixings provided. "You might have come up with the best epitaph for his campaign that anyone could possibly come up with."
Dawn's on her way back up the counter. More customers have come in. I'm currently thinking of Mike Huckabee. In a relatively short time, he's gone from being a 'common touch with the common man' sensation, to someone who's losing out in the Face Race with Ron Paul. It's also feasible that more people at New England breakfast tables this morning were talking about Arena Football than the Patriots.
"Hey, George!"
"Yes, Donald?"
"Hey, did you watch the Super Bowl?"
"Yes, Donald, I did."
"I liked it but the commercials kinda sucked."
"It was a great game, Donald."
With that, the door swings open, and a fury decked out in royal blue and bright red trim makes his way to one of the nearby stools. A small fury, at that. It's Myles Glickman, dressed in blue Converse All-Stars, royal blue sweat pants, an old-fashioned leather Giants jacket, and a Super Bowl Champions ballcap, like the one the players wore during the clubhouse celebration. "Where is she?"
"Where's who?"
"Brenda!"
"She's not here yet, as you can see!"
"Hey, George!"
He's so annoying. "What, Donald?"
"He looks like a blue lawn jockey!"
In all the time I've seen him come in here, that's the first funny thing Don Don's ever said. Myles does, at that. "Oh, gee, thanks," Myles says.
"Think nothing of it," Donald replies.
Dawn comes back down the counter. "Uh-huh", she says. "You're trying to be one of those blue pantomime guys who feel imaginary walls."
"What," Myles says, in exasperation, "is everyone a comedian here tonight?"
"Nah," I remark, enjoying my oatmeal, "you're the only comedian here."
"Right," Myles says. "And, don't any of you forget it.."
The door opens, and Brenda comes in. She looks very, very tired. One thing I've learned about Brenda...when she's tired, she's dangerous. Like a bear.
"I kinda figured you'd be here," she says to Myles, who sits proudly, with his arms folded, like an old Sioux chieftain.
"I," Myles utters with gusto, "am King!"
"No," Brenda says, popping the paper off a straw, and dropping it into the Coke that Dawn provided. "You are Dwarf."
The expression on Myles' face reads touche. "If so, than this dwarf's team's Super Bowl Champions!"
"That's nice." Brenda turns to me. "Didja vote?"
"Yep. On the way home from work."
"Barack?"
"Barack."
Brenda and I upraise our fists, and gently collide our knuckles.
"Hey, George!"
Sigh. "Yes, Donald?"
"Hey, if it's supposed to be black pepper, than why is some of it brown and some of it tan, too?"
Sigh.
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Posted by Knoxxie03 on 2008-02-05 20:23:45 | Rating: | Views: 63
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